Prologue
Monday
The Day After Osian & Dahlia Go to RE for Help Finding Caden
The Human Realm
Pain had become his constant companion, the only thing he knew anymore.
He couldn’t remember a world outside of it. Couldn’t remember sunlight, or the sound of the wind rustling through the trees, or the warmth of another voice that didn’t promise agony. Pain had woven itself into every inch of his body, saturating his nerves like poison. It lived in him. He was pain, and pain was him.
There was no end. No beginning. Just the never-ceasing now, a grinding, endless present defined by torment and misery. He wasn’t aware of how long he’d been there. Days? Weeks? Years? Time no longer existed in any meaningful way. It was measured only in his own screams and the cruel patience of the man who broke him down piece by piece.
Every breath was a labor. Every inch of his skin had been flayed, cut, burned, or bruised. His arms hung above his head, pulled so tightly that the joints had long since popped out of place. His shoulders throbbed with a dull, constant fire. He couldn’t feel his fingers anymore. Just a heavy, unnatural numbness that made him fear the bones had shattered, or maybe the nerves had simply died. He wasn’t sure.
Sometimes, when the suffocation overtook him and the world dimmed at the edges, he hoped that he’d pass out and never wake again.
But he always woke up. Always. That was the cruelest part.
Most of the time, he hung in the middle of the filthy room, ribs protruding sharply beneath torn flesh, feet just brushing the grimy floor. When he wasn’t hanging, he was crumpled on the cold, slick concrete, too broken to move. He lay in layers of human waste—his own urine, feces, blood, and vomit—a thick, rotting stench that clung to him like a second skin. It soaked into his hair, his raw wounds, and his soul.
Sometimes, he wondered if he was already dead and this was hell. His muddled mind figured it very well could be.
He always asked the same questions over and over inside his head: Why? Why am I here? What did I do? Why won’t they just kill me?
No one ever answered.
His torturer, who was a man with a face so nondescript that it burned itself into his memory, never spoke unless it was to deliver cold commands or muttered insults. There were no explanations. No demands. Just pain. As if that were his only purpose for being here.
Sometimes he thought maybe he had done something. Something unforgivable. Maybe this was his penance. Maybe he’d once been a monster, and this was justice. He had no memory of it, though. No memory of anything beyond this room. He truly hoped that’s what this was, that maybe he truly deserved all of this.
A flicker of movement cut through the pain, grabbing his attention.
Something sharp pierced his thigh, jolting him out of his haze. He didn’t scream anymore; his vocal cords were too raw, his throat too dry. But his eyes flew open, breath hitching as the blade twisted, scraping against bone. Blood gushed out, warm against his icy flesh. His head lolled forward, chin hitting his chest. Could this just be over already?
Please, he thought, but the words never came. Please, let me die.
“You stink,” the man muttered.
Of course he did. He was rotting in his own filth. His clothes, or what remained of them, were shredded and crusted with old blood. Open sores festered along his back and sides. His flesh had started to decay. He could smell it, even through the numbness. The stink of rot. Infection. Death.
But death never came.
Something hissed, and then the blast hit him.
A high-pressure stream of icy water slammed into his chest, knocking the air from his lungs and making him gasp. The force rocked his limp body backward, yanking at his ruined arms. He gasped, but the cold stole the breath before he could try to inhale. The water lashed at his open wounds, tearing away scabs and flesh. He would’ve screamed if he could. Instead, his mouth just opened in a silent sob at this new torture.
The water poured into his nose, his ears, and his wounds. Every nerve screamed. He wasn’t being cleaned. He was being punished. The only blessing was the small droplets of water that made it into his mouth. Water. But of course, it wasn’t enough.
When the hose finally shut off, he hung there, trembling, drenched, and with his teeth chattering violently. He couldn’t tell if he smelled better. Maybe the filth had been washed away. Maybe not. But it didn’t matter, because in the next moment, the chain released.
And he fell.
The world tilted. His skull cracked against the ground, pain ricocheting through his head. His body folded in on itself, and pain flared in every joint. Something popped in his hip. His face landed in a puddle of water and blood, or at least he hoped that’s all it was.
He couldn’t move. Couldn’t take a breath. He wanted to vomit but didn’t have the strength. He just lay there, twitching, half-conscious, face pressed to the slick stone.
Then something hard hit his chest—a plastic bottle. It bounced off of him and hit the floor with a dull clunk. He blinked at it. What the hell was he supposed to do with that? He couldn’t open it. It was another form of torture, a way to taunt him.
Then a boot slammed into his face, and the blessed darkness took him again.
He awoke screaming.
The scream tore out of his ravaged throat like the dying breath of an animal, dry and cracked. He was being lifted again, the chains yanking on his wrists and arms, dragging him upright. His back arched involuntarily, his body seized with pain so all-consuming he thought his heart might actually stop. He wished it would.
He could feel another knife in his thigh again. The same place. This time he felt the blade twist into it, robbing him of the ability to breathe for a second. When he got a breath, he screamed again, hoarse and rasping, as another blade was driven into the other leg. Blood poured freely down both limbs. His vision swam.
Was this it? Was he finally dying? But even as consciousness slipped, he knew the answer. He lay on the ground again, soaked, bloodied, and broken. The bottle now lay against his chest, still sealed. Still mocking him and his unquenched thirst.
One of the knives was still embedded in his thigh. He could feel the metal vibrating with every shallow breath. He wanted to pull it free, but he couldn’t lift a finger. His hands didn’t respond anymore. His body was no longer his own. It didn’t respond to any commands he gave it.
The room was silent now. Silent except for his shallow, uneven breathing. He half-dozed. Time passed like molasses, sticky and slow, cruel in its refusal to let him slip away. Then, he heard a movement.
A breath that wasn’t his.
His eyes flew open in panic, expecting more pain. Expecting the boot or the blade.
Instead... a soft gasp. A feminine voice.
No.
This was a hallucination. It had to be. He was never sure what was real anymore and what wasn’t. The only thing he was sure of was the pain.
His vision blurred, but he saw her, just barely. A figure with dark hair cascading in soft curls, green eyes wide with horror. She stood in the shadows, staring at him like she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.
An angel, he thought. Come to take me away.
She didn’t speak at first. She just stood there, staring at him.
He blinked a few times, wondering if she’d disappear. But when he opened his eyes again, she was still there, and she’d moved much closer.
A hand touched his brow, gentle and warm, and he found himself wondering if she was his mother. He hoped not. His heart twisted.
“Drink,” she whispered.
Plastic pressed against his lips. The water bottle. He cracked his lips open, just enough, and a drop slid inside. It tasted like heaven.
“Easy,” she murmured.
He tried to open his eyes, but it just wasn’t happening. They felt gritty, and he was completely miserable. Another drop. Then another. He couldn’t swallow properly, but some made it down. The fire in his throat eased barely, but it was enough to make him want to weep.
He felt a soft caress on the edge of his ear, and he almost groaned. His tormentor had taken a knife to them earlier, and he wasn’t even sure why, but that had been particularly painful.
“What did they do to you?” she whispered. “What did you do, or not do, to warrant all of this?”
He couldn’t answer her. He didn’t know. But he felt something shift in his chest, something that hadn’t moved in a long time. Longing. Not for escape. Not for life. But just for simple kindness. He wished he could thank her, but that wasn’t possible.
“I have to go,” she said softly. Her hand lingered on his brow, gently sweeping his hair back. “Hold on. I’ll come back. I’ll get us both out.”
He didn’t believe her. He didn’t want to believe her. Hope hurt worse than any knife. But he stared up at her all the same. Committed her face to memory, as something flickered in the back of his mind. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, and he gave up on it.
Maybe she was real. She was quite beautiful, probably an angel, because he’d never seen a woman so beautiful in his life. Or maybe a demon because, given how he felt, if he was dead, he had to be in hell. Either way, she touched him like he was a person.
And that, more than the water, more than the mercy, undid him.
He slept. Not deeply. Not restfully. But enough. His tongue felt less like leather. The water had helped. He wanted more. But wanting was foolish. Just like hoping for death.
He had wished for the end, begged for it even, but it never came. He had even begun to wonder if he was immortal. Some cursed creature meant to suffer endlessly. That was the only explanation that made any sense. Lucky him.
He wasn’t waiting for rescue. He wasn’t even waiting for death anymore. He was just... waiting.
For the pain to stop.
For the world to end.
Or maybe, just maybe, for her to come back.
